You know, part of the preparation for my upcoming workshop is a mandatory reading list that we must have completed by the time we arrive. The list includes eleven books, including two anthologies, and various other novels that, well, to be completely honest, I probably wouldn't touch if they weren't required reading.

We're not allowed to discuss these books, or how we felt about them on the list, so if you're attending this workshop with me, LEAVE NOW!

Okay, now that that has been said:

IF I EVER HAVE TO READ ANOTHER CLIVE CUSSLER NOVEL AGAIN IN MY LIFE I WILL RIP SOMEONE'S FUCKING HEAD OFF THEIR SHOULDERS BEFORE PUKING DOWN THEIR THROAT.

Whew, now I feel better.

Can someone tell me how this man sold one novel, let alone how he has over 90,000,000 copies of his novels in print? Can someone tell me how any writer can possibly write a line like, ""It doesn't make sense. Why would they want to hurt me? I'm just a biochemist specializing in the field of molecular biology," she said, informatively."

People gaze lazily. Heroes flex menacingly. Clive Cussler writes shittily.

Maybe it's on object lesson. Jeez kid, if this punk of a novelist can become THAT successful, image what a good writer can do . . .

Feh. I have as much faith in the American public's taste as I have in George Bush's wisdom. Ninety-nine percent of this counties taste exists solely within its mouth.

But I swear, if the "Tom Swify," ratio doesn't subside in this novel, I'm gonna fucking cry.

Joseph Haines, signing off from The Edge of the Abyss.